Skunk and Badger Read online

  That sounds like a mathematical equation! thought Badger. He nearly dropped the tiny orange hen.

  That night, Chicken Little considered what she had read in the sand.

  The next morning, Chicken Little knew that if she could apply the chicken scratch, it would be Something That Made a Difference. Chicken Little gobbled down the magic corn kernel. That is how she brought back . . .

  “The Quantum Leap!” said Skunk. “The Quantum Leap is not a leap, or a hop, or a hurdling, but a disappearance in one place and a reappearance in another. The Quantum Leap made the chickens’ world safer. Chicken Little became known as Chicken Little the Mighty!”

  That’s how they do it? Science? thought Badger, looking around at the chickens in wonder.

  Skunk closed the book with a thump. “THE END.”

  The chickens broke into squawks. “Bock!” “Bock-bock!”

  The tiny orange hen in Badger’s arms tapped him with her beak. Badger nodded at her.

  That was a good story, he thought, sighing. Adventure and science made the best stories. Now he looked around his rock room. There were chickens on the floor, chickens on the bookshelves, chickens on the rock tumbler and the windowsills.

  He looked at the tiny orange hen in his arms. Orange like an agate, he thought, and happiness flooded through him.

  This is the best night of my life.

  A speckled chicken popped and fluttered. “Bock-bock-bock!”

  With that, Badger’s rock room drained of chickens. The tiny orange hen scrabbled from Badger’s arms and plunged into the burbling, feathered surge.

  Badger looked at Skunk.

  Skunk grinned. He gestured to Badger to follow.

  Badger followed.

  The moon!

  The moon filled the porch end to end.

  “Oh,” said Badger.

  Skunk sighed.

  For a long while, Badger and Skunk stood side by side on the porch watching the moon rise. The chickens had gathered in the yard. Badger’s dried-out garden bloomed with feathery poofs and tufts, crowns and tassels.

  “Chickens are beautiful,” whispered Badger.

  Skunk nodded. “Yes. But there are at least one hundred chickens. That is too many chickens. In North Twist, I will have to be careful with my chicken whistle.”

  “Har!” laughed Badger.

  “Ha!” laughed Skunk.

  Without warning, the chickens shook themselves off, formed a line, and strolled past Skunk and Badger into the brownstone.

  Badger looked at Skunk.

  Skunk shrugged. “There is popcorn left.”

  Then Skunk sneezed. Colors burst off Skunk’s nose like fireworks.

  “Oh!” Badger stepped back.

  Skunk smiled and rubbed his nose. “Moon dust gets everywhere.”

  Skunk pointed at Badger’s face. “Eyebrows.” Then Skunk followed the chickens inside.

  Badger rubbed a paw over his eyebrows and swore he saw a dust—a dust with a shimmer—drift in front of his eyes. As he entered the brownstone again, Badger thought he could not remember a more magical evening.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” yelled Skunk.

  Chapter Seven

  “Stooooaaaaaat!” Yelled Skunk.

  At the word stoat, chickens jumped and climbed. They scrambled onto bookshelves. They scooted behind rocks. Chickens tucked themselves under cushions and clambered into cupboards. The air fogged with chicken dander and wobbled with feathers.

  Badger ran toward the front door. Skunk was running back toward the kitchen. The two of them collided in the hallway.

  “UngGUH.”

  “Ow!”

  Then everything went still—so still that Badger heard feathers hitting the floorboards.

  Skunk looked at Badger with eyes gone wild. He pointed at the door. “Stoat-gram for you. Who would send a stoat-gram? What were they thinking? I slammed the door shut!”

  The doorbell rang.

  Badger nodded resolutely. “I will get it.”

  Skunk ran in front of him. “Leave it. That is a stoat. Stoats are not friendly!”

  Badger stepped around him.

  Skunk grabbed Badger’s forearm and hissed, “Badger, there are chickens here.”

  “I will not invite the stoat in,” said Badger, as he freed himself from Skunk’s paw.

  Skunk’s jaw dropped in horror. He looked around. Then he slapped his paws to his mouth. “Hide!” he yelled, and raced around the corner.

  The doorbell rang-rang-RAAAAANG again. Badger went to the door thinking, It is only a stoat. Badgers were bigger.

  He opened the door. A stoat on the job, thought Badger as he looked down upon the stoat, observing her messenger bag and the Speedy Stoat Delivery patch sewn on her company jacket.

  “Looking for a badger named Badger. Heh. Descriptive. You that particular badger?” asked the stoat.

  Badger nearly rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. “That’s me. Got a stoat-gram for me?”

  “Right here, right here,” mumbled the stoat, digging in her bag. Suddenly—in a movement so swift that Badger nearly missed it—the stoat reached behind Badger’s leg and snatched something out of the air.

  “Ah!” The stoat looked at something pinched between two of her claws.

  Badger felt blood drain from his face. The stoat held a tiny feather.

  The stoat sniffed it. “As suspected—Gallus gallus domesticus.” A smile curled the stoat’s lips. An eyebrow rose. “Seen any chickens lately?”

  Then the stoat dove.

  Badger blocked the stoat with a knee.

  The stoat put a foot in the door.

  Badger shoved the stoat backward and said, “Stoat-gram for Badger. Now.”

  “Huffy, huffy, huffy. No need for that. I’ve got it right here.” The stoat adjusted her lapel, then pulled Badger’s stoat-gram out of the bag.

  Badger jerked it from the stoat’s grasp, pocketed it, and grabbed hold of the door.

  The stoat shook her head and smiled. She held out a clipboard. “Sign.”

  Badger did not want to let go of the door. He narrowed his eyes at the stoat.

  The stoat put her paws up. “Won’t do a thing! Promise!”

  Badger braced the door as best he could, took hold of the clipboard and pen, and signed. (He did not recognize his own signature.) He tossed the clipboard in the direction of the stoat, slammed the door, and drew the bolt.

  Then Badger pulled the stoat-gram out of his pocket for a peek. Under “Sender” he read, “Ms. Lula P. Marten.” He stuffed the stoat-gram back into the pocket, and thought, To be read later.

  Then he drew the double bolt.

  And latched the chain.

  When he turned, the brownstone seemed deserted.

  “Skunk? Chickens? Hello?” Badger called out.

  Tiny feathers floated in the air.

  “The Speedy Stoat Delivery stoat is gone!”

  Skunk’s head popped in. “Gone? Are you sure?”

  “The stoat is gone,” said Badger.

  Skunk jumped into the hallway, looked both ways, and nodded. Then he stepped forward and stretched out his paw. “Who sent you a stoat-gram? Let me see!”

  Badger clamped a paw over his pocket. “It is from Aunt Lula. For me.”

  Skunk’s face fell. “Aunt Lula? No! Why would she do that?”

  As if it were all a great mystery, Badger laid out his paws and raised his eyebrows.

  Skunk slumped. “I know why. Stoats are in the weasel family. Aunt Lula has a soft spot for any weasel.” He straightened. “But stoats? How can she like them? She never said anything to me about stoats, or I would have shown her my bite marks!” Skunk rolled his sleeve up and pointed to a scar.

  Skunk nodded. “Yes, a stoat bit me with his pointy little teeth! Quick too. Bite, bite, bite—that is a stoat! And the worst thing?” Skunk pulled over a stool, climbed on top of it, and whispered directly into Badger’s ear, “Stoats drag off chickens. Yo
u never see those chickens again. We must take precautions!”

  Skunk looked at Badger and waited, his eyes full of worry.

  “Precautions?” Badger wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

  But now there was another sound, a squishing sound. It came from a rubber boot on his left. He looked into the boot and a chicken blinked up at him. An earflap hat on the coat stand wiggled, and out burst a bantam hen. She shook herself and floated to the floor.

  “Chickens!” called Skunk. He leapt off the stool and began dashing into corners, nooks, crannies, and shadows. “You can come out now! Come out, come out!”

  Like that, chickens poked their heads in. The Jersey Giant thumped down the stairs. The Ko Shamos rounded a corner. Here today, gone to leghorn, Badger thought, as a leghorn step-stroll-stepped into the hallway.

  Skunk skidded around in greeting.

  Badger searched for the tiny orange hen. He spotted her perched on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She had fluffed into an orange orb and was observing him with her tiny black eyes.

  Meanwhile, the hallway filled with chickens: First, they covered the floorboards, then the stairs, then the tops of furniture, and then chickens landed on other chickens. (This did not go well.) Larry heaved himself into the hallway and let loose with a cough-a-doodle-hck-HCK.

  Badger took that as his cue. He clapped his paws. “Time to wrap it up! Lasso that electron, hold on tight, and go wherever Quantum Leaping Chickens go at night!”

  Badger felt rather clever. Rhyming and everything!

  It was meant to be funny.

  The chickens turned. They stared at Badger (left, right, left, squint-blink, squint-blink).

  “The Quantum Leap does not work like that,” said Skunk, his eyes flashing. “This is no time for jokes. Batten the hatches! Secure the perimeter! All bolts must be bolted! Above all else, the chickens must stay overnight.”

  “One hundred chickens overnight? Surely not!”

  Skunk shot Badger a heated look.

  Badger continued anyway. “My brownstone is not a chicken coop. Look, that stoat was a Speedy Stoat Delivery stoat. She is a stoat with a job to do. She is long gone by now.”

  Skunk marched up to him, sending chickens scrambling. “My brownstone? If I am your roommate, this is our brownstone, Badger.” Skunk pointed at the door. “Do you know what happened when I opened the door? That stoat licked her eyeteeth. I am a skunk—I am not dinner!” Skunk leaned in. “Chickens are our guests!”

  “Bock!” “Bock-bock!” “BOCK-bock!” said the chickens.

  “Fine!” Badger exclaimed. “Do what you need to do. I am going to bed. But know this: I do not clean up after chicken sleepovers!”

  Badger glanced at the newel post and saw that the tiny orange hen was no longer there.

  “Bock! Bock!” said the chickens as he climbed the stairs and shut his bedroom door.

  Inside his bedroom, Badger heard loud BOCK!-ings, the whiffling of wings, and low, troubled clucks coming from around the house.

  Badger slid to the floor. This cannot continue.

  Then he remembered: The stoat-gram! He patted his pocket and felt the crumple of paper. Aunt Lula had already taken care of this situation. Badger only had to read the news in Aunt Lula’s stoat-gram. Badger pulled the wadded paper out of his pocket, smoothed it out, and ripped open the seal. He read:

  Badger—Disappointed in you. Skunk to stay in my brownstone.

  If difficult after a month, contact me again.—Aunt Lula.

  Badger inhaled sharply. She couldn’t do this.

  He looked at the paper again. She could.

  Badger read the message for a third time. She had done it.

  In a daze, Badger folded the message along its creases and got up off the floor. He walked to his desk and opened his correspondence drawer. He put the stoat-gram inside and shut it. Then he sat on the edge of his bed.

  What did Aunt Lula know of dirty dishes and Laws of Nature? What did she know of boxes stamped flat and doors that banged open? Badger had seen tongs holding smoking peppers, had experienced elephants stuck in his ears. Rocket Potato still lay in Rocket Potato Corner. The kitchen oozed.

  And chickens! Everywhere—chickens! “Bock-bock”? Not a language! The Quantum Leap? More tall tale than science. And now—now!—a one-hundred-chicken sleepover!

  What about Important Rock Work? Important Rock Work must be done. Important Rock Work!

  The whole world was against him.

  Badger burrowed under the covers.

  Badger stayed under the covers for fifteen minutes (give or take).

  Finally, Badger declared his life, as he knew it, done. Once he had studied rocks. Once he had been an Important Rock Scientist with a diploma, three blue ribbons, and a publication file. Once he had been left alone. But all that ended here, right here, under the covers.

  Badger stayed under the covers a moment longer, then he did what he needed to do. He crawled to his closet. He pulled out the ukulele, and plucked.

  Pliiiinggg.

  He ran his claw over the strings. Beed . . . el . . . lee . . . bing!

  Soon a tiny tune formed.

  While Skunk and the chickens latched windows and locked doors, Badger sat on the floor of his bedroom with his ukulele. The tiny tune grew.

  Badger got into his pajamas and climbed into bed with his ukulele. He played the tiny tune and thought, Maybe it isn’t so bad. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

  When he had finished his tune, he put the ukulele back in its case, and slid it under his bed. He adjusted his covers, and a heaviness came upon him.

  Such is the power of the ukulele, thought Badger, as he turned off the light.

  With a long sigh, Badger fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The Next Morning, Voices On The Back Porch stirred Badger from sleep. First came a low voice. Skunk’s voice followed, a short reply. Badger clutched his pillow and muttered, “Too early for social calls.” Then the low voice spoke and Badger caught the cool swagger. It reminded him of someone. Someone recent. Someone not known long. He rooted sluggishly through his memory and remembered the stoat. Irritating. Too self-assured. Yes, that’s it. Badger sighed, pulled up the covers, and began to drift off.

  Skunk’s voice raised in pitch. It grew higher. And louder.

  The pieces dropped into place: Speedy Stoat Delivery stoat. (Chock!) Chickens in the brownstone. (Chock!) Skunk, friend of chickens. (Chock!)

  Badger lifted an ear from the pillow and detected Skunk’s tone. Defensive—definitely defensive. Skunk was a skunk. When skunks got defensive, they . . .

  Badger sat up.

  “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Badger yelled as he bolted out his bedroom door, chickens scattering in every direction. “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” yelled Badger as he careened down the stairs and through the hallway to the back door.

  He tossed the door open. Badger saw Skunk with teeth bared, lips folded back, and tail upright! “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

  Later, Badger would reflect that flying toward Skunk had not been the best strategy, particularly when he’d glimpsed the back end of the stoat sprinting off in the opposite direction—away. Also, how had he missed the hiss of vaporization?

  But never mind. Yelling “Nooooooooo!” Badger pushed off, limbs outstretched, flying toward Skunk. Time slowed. The flight seemed to go on forever. Badger saw Skunk notice him and step aside. Then Badger hit the spray, and though he was no stranger to the smell of skunk, Badger had never before showered in it. And this was a shower, a showering in an oily stink, a stink that stuck. It glazed his snout, his furry face, the fine hairs of his eyebrows. Badger balled up.

  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

  And dropped.

  And skidded to a stop. Full stop.

  Badger lay on the porch, coughing, gasping for one gulp of clean, clear air. (It was not forthcomin
g.) His eyes watered. His snout quivered and ran. Badger wiped at them with his furry forearm, but to no avail. Everything watered. I am a spigot! he thought, as he pressed his forearm to his snout and scraped himself into a seated position.

  Next to him, Skunk leaned over, his paws on his knees, breathing heavily. Then Skunk straightened up and stretched. He rolled his neck one way, the other.

  Snout to forearm, Badger gawked. Skunk exhibited no ill effects. Not one! Skunk combed through his stripe with two claws as he gazed across the backyard to the alley beyond. He shook out his limbs, turned to Badger, and whispered, “I would not like to meet that stoat again.” Then a smile spread across his face. “Did you see that atomization, Badger? Impressive. Bye-bye stoat! Ha!” Skunk closed his eyes and danced, pumping his paws into the air.

  “Hck! Hck! HCCccK!” Badger coughed into his forearm.

  “ALL CLEAR, CHICKENS. THE STOAT IS GONE. THE STOAT TURNED AND RAN. Yes, she did, yes she did!”

  Badger looked up and saw Skunk at the back door.

  From the kitchen came a sound remarkably similar to the sound of a standing ovation. Badger knew it was only the clapping of wings as one hundred chickens gathered. Still, Badger winced. He wiped his nose in fury on his now-sodden forearm.

  Skunk shut the door. He met Badger’s gaze with a wide smile and shrugged. “There is always, ah, a lingering aroma, but look at how well it works! Everything is a-okay now, Badger.” Skunk dusted off his paws. “I am going to need a long nap.”

  A-okay? Lingering aroma? Time for a nap? The stink hung in the air, blossoming in every direction. It was rotten eggs, old coffee, and mushroomy, stuck-to-the-bottom garbage goo. It burned like chili peppers. It puckered like lemons. Badger was steeped in it, had flown through it, and now carried it.

  “You have some explaining to do,” Badger growled.

  Skunk flinched. He looked at Badger in surprise. “I will see to the chickens,” he said quickly. In he went. The door slammed shut.